


Post Mortem

by silenttension



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, silenttension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-29
Updated: 2012-10-29
Packaged: 2017-11-17 07:18:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/549013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silenttension/pseuds/silenttension
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During a case, John, while being held hostage, is forced to swallow a poison. Once he dies, Sherlock’s brain begins to deceive him and he is under the assumption that John’s whole death was a dream. When he finds out it wasn’t, things go south as Sherlock has to rip through a dream, within a dream, within a dream, to discover that he may already be too late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Post Mortem

**Author's Note:**

> In a vision, or in none,  
> is it therefore the less gone?  
> All that we see or seem,  
> Is but a dream within a dream.
> 
> -Edgar Allan Poe

_**P o s t    M o r t e m :    S h e r l o c k    B B C** _

* * *

Sherlock was stretched out on the elongated couch in the living room. He had his eyes closed, concentrating hard on what was going on in his hollowed head. Sherlock replayed the hours beforehand in his mind. He could feel the brisk breeze on his face and hear it churning the leaves of the trees behind him as he and John sat in the local park. Sherlock clearly remembered the words as they passed John’s lips.

“Sherlock.” John said, quietly. Timidly. Sherlock felt such a comfort in hearing John say his name, but he was hiding something which Sherlock could see. John was sick. Sherlock didn’t need to see scans or reports to know that the person closest to him wasn’t right. John held out a file which contained the medical reports he had gotten the night before.

Sherlock rejected the file as he firmly said, “I do not need to see any papers, John.” Putting the papers down on the bench in the space between them, John swallowed. Most of all, he feared that Sherlock would say too much –now it was dawning on him that for once, Sherlock wanted to stay quiet. It was then that John realised how much he longed for Sherlock to go off onto one of his perpetual rants just to keep him entertained.

But just as John wanted, Sherlock spoke up, after a good two minutes of silence. “I know you’re ill, John. I don’t know what with,” Sherlock said. He adjusted his scarf, shifting how he was sitting as he continued, “You’ve been quite weak lately, your limp is coming back. You’ve been sick for a while and you know that too. It’s the thought of being ill which is making you stressed and causing the limp. You wanted to put off a check-up for a while so you could convince yourself that nothing was wrong.”

“I’m guessing you already know what I have then?” John asked, not looking at Sherlock, who was looking directly at him.

Sherlock replied with, “You’ve stayed home on the last two cases. Mrs Hudson told me that you were in the bathroom vomiting. This could explain why you’ve lost so much weight, but I think it is more than that.” Sherlock didn’t hesitate as he added, “Its terminal.”

“What?” John abruptly asked, snapping back and staring Sherlock in the eyes. There was no way Sherlock could have known this, as John didn’t really know it himself. John guessed that the illness wasn’t going to go away and was preparing himself for the worst.

“So it is terminal,” Sherlock thought out loud. “Have you told Harry yet?” Sherlock asked, as he turned away from John and sat straight. He knew John hadn’t. Sherlock just wanted to get off the topic of John curling up into a ball and dying in the next few months. But when John didn’t answer after a good fifty seconds, Sherlock tried, “Was it the poison?”

John slowly nodded, took a deep breath and then said, “Yes –though they thought it was cancer at first but the poison was dormant until a few weeks ago. It’s in my blood stream. I’ve only a few weeks. And because of the mucking around with the cancer tests, we’re too late to do anything about it.”

* * *

 

As Sherlock awoke, he remembered how John looked at him when he was told about the poison. He remembered walking back to 221B with John by his side, internally pleading that the walk would last a life time. And the weeks that had passed after that. Sherlock remembered how John gripped his hand in the hospital when he was suffocating. And he remembered returning home afterward with John limping along by his side. Sherlock remembered checking in on Mrs Watson as John hobbled up the stairs. He remembered hearing the loud banging a few minutes later and finding John’s lifeless body on the floor outside the door to their flat. He remembered the tears of Harry Watson as the casket was lowered into the ground. Most of all, Sherlock remembered how Mrs Hudson thought it would have been nice leaving flowers at John’s grave and how Sherlock insisted upon leaving John’s old cane there instead, saying, ‘just in case he ever needs it again.’

Sherlock sat up and quickly scanned the flat around him. He was still in what he wore at John’s funeral. He refused Mrs Hudson when she had told him that he ought to wear a tuxedo, instead, he wore what he usually would –after a long winded speech, of course.

Sherlock earnestly regretted the fact that the last thing he ever said to John was, “I’m going to miss your funny little blog posts. Even if they do get more attention than mine.” And John laughing along as they acted like it was a completely normal day.

As Sherlock stood up and shook the thought of John out of his head, he knew that he had to get started on more cases before his mind began to disintegrate and leave him completely inconsolable and alone with the thoughts of him holding his lifeless best friend’s body, telling Mrs Hudson to call an ambulance.

Making his way to the kitchen to check on his latest experiment, which involved human cartilage. As he walked through the archways, there was a familiar, pudgy figure in a tanned jumper, at the toaster. He stood and fiddled with it as he asked, “Finally woke up then?” as if it were the most casual thing you would ever hear. There was a spring and dandy pitch to it which both startled and confused Sherlock for a moment.

John stood at the kitchen counter making his usual breakfast, though not complaining about Sherlock’s experiments. Sherlock tried to speak, but had to stop himself. He took a breath and once again tried, “John.” To his amazement, when Sherlock blinked twice, John was still there. There was a sharp twang in Sherlock’s chest as he thought, _dream –just a silly dream_.

Still a little incredulous, Sherlock leant up against the door frame as John asked, “Would you like some toast?” before turning around and holding out a plate.

“No.” Sherlock replied out of habit. He then proceeded to say, “I had the strangest dream, John.”

“And that would be?” John asked as he sat down at the table.

Sherlock waved his hand as if swiping a bug away from his face as he threw away the idea. He shook his head and said, “No, doesn’t matter, we’ve got cases. Now, shall we?” Sherlock gestured towards the door before taking his scarf and wrapping it around his neck.

Just woken from his little nap, Sherlock was glad his silly dreams were over and he could get back to what he did best. Still, they were pretty vivid dreams. But Sherlock wanted to let them go and disappear into the backs of his mind as he held open the door of the flat for John.

“I just started eating,” John complained, from the kitchen, “would you just hold on for a second, Sherlock, please?”

“Oh come on, John, let’s go,” Sherlock said after about fifteen seconds of silently waiting.

John’s mouth was half full of toast as he said, “You’re making it very easy to hate you right now, and you know that, don’t you?” Reluctantly, however, John got up, grabbing another piece of toast on his way out of the flat. Sherlock stopped momentarily before the stairs, where he dreamed John’s death. Shaking it off, Sherlock and John marched down the stairs and out the door, on their way to Scotland Yard.

On their way back into the building once the day had ended, Sherlock and John were rather pleased with the thought of knowing they had successfully put two murderers behind bars and another file of important data back in the hands of its rightful owner.

A few months went by and Sherlock and John were back to their old ways. Sherlock had almost completely forgotten about his dreams. It wasn’t until one afternoon, Sherlock and John were sitting together in the lounge room, chatting about their last case, that Mrs Hudson walked in and knocked on the door. Sherlock and John stopped talking and glanced at the door as she asked, “Sherlock, who are you talking to? I can hear you from downstairs.”

Sherlock held out his hand and motioned towards the chair and said, “Well… John.” Mrs Hudson glanced at the chair on the other side of the room. To Sherlock, there was a spritely man, who was wearing a dark jacket which was too big for his body, sitting there calmly and smiling. To Mrs Hudson, there was an empty chair. Sherlock had been talking to himself for half an hour, which Mrs Hudson wouldn’t have thought twice about had it not been for the amount of times Sherlock said John’s name.

“Oh dear,” Mrs Hudson began. She dreaded the fact that fir the next fifteen minutes she had to sit and explain to Sherlock what had happened with John and that he had passed away months beforehand.

“It’s all in your head, Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson finished, quietly. Sherlock stood mouthing the word no as he walked towards the armchair John was sitting in. Sherlock held out his hand and reached to touch John’s shoulder, hoping that there would be a solid figure to touch. When his hand sunk directly through where John’s should was supposed to be, the image of John seemed to flicker in Sherlock’s head.

There was an eerie silence in the room for a few seconds and for Sherlock, time slowed down to a near stop. And then a booming, “No!” erupted from Sherlock’s mouth. The tone was enough to make Mrs Hudson jump. It wasn’t pleading, it wasn’t upset, it was angry and confused. Sherlock’s hands were on his head and his eyes shut all on their own as he said, “No. No, Mrs Hudson, John has been here. He has been here in the last few months, look.”

Sherlock pointed to the used kitchen utensils in the kitchen and the dishes clean on the sink. Now, of course, he could see that they were not there at all, rather, he had seen them, and then they vanished. “Okay, he went grocery shopping,” Sherlock ran into the kitchen, jumping over one of the chairs and ripping the fridge door open, “see?” Mrs Hudson raised her eyebrows before Sherlock could even see that the fridge was completely empty.

“No, this isn’t right!” Sherlock yelled. He gripped his head with his hands and squeezed his eyes shut as he became more infuriated with his brain as each second passed. Sherlock raced out of the kitchen and out of the door of the flat. As she jumped down the stairs, two at a time, he found himself angrily yelling out for John.

As Sherlock jumped down the last two stairs, he ripped the front door open and yelled out for John. Each and every person on the street snapped their attention to Sherlock as he shouted for John again. Sherlock’s mind was completely empty yet there were a hundred thoughts flying through his head each second. He wasn’t insane. Sherlock knew he had been with John for the last few months. They had solved cases together. They had laughed together. They didn’t hesitate to pay out on each other. Sherlock was sure he had discarded and heard the last of the silly dream he had months earlier.

Racing down the street, Sherlock calculated how long it would take him to get to St Bartholomew's. He knew in his heart of hearts that there was nothing mentally wrong with him. There couldn’t have been. He was the great Sherlock Holmes. The man who defeated Moriarty and escaped his own suicide –something the public still knew little to nothing about. As Sherlock tried to pick up his speed, there were more and more thoughts exploding in his head, creating such havoc that he didn’t notice an oncoming red tourist bus.

In a second it was over.

* * *

 

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open and his body jolted upright as he realized here he was.

He looked around the flat completely bemused and befuddled.

221B Baker street seemed nothing outside of the ordinary as Sherlock climbed up from the sofa and took in what was around him. His eyebrows furrowed and he knew something wasn’t right. Though there was the sudden impulsion to call out for his friend –even though he was sure nothing would come of it. “John?” Sherlock tried. The entire flat was dim and there was the slight shimmer of light flickering in through the window from the outside street lights. Sherlock flicked the lights on and heard people walking up the stairs.

Almost instantly, Sherlock picked out the voices, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. _Lestrade? What possible reason does Lestrade have for being here? Again._ Sherlock thought to himself as the voices were much louder and closer.

As the voices matched the bodies, Lestrade opened the door for Mrs Hudson as Sherlock stood in the direct centre of the room. Mrs Hudson looked completely fin to Sherlock. Not a hint of grief plastered on her old and worn face from the death of both John and apparently to Sherlock, himself. When Lestrade and Mrs Hudson didn’t immediately notice Sherlock standing there, he thought that maybe the bus did, in fact, kill him.

But when Mrs Hudson smiled in such a motherly way, it made Sherlock nearly completely calm. However, the thought of John’s death still lingered in Sherlock’s mind and forced him to ask the blunt question. Where is John?

Lestrade raised his shoulders before letting them drop. Such a small shrug, you would have thought nothing of it. Obviously Lestrade was no help.

“Well,” Mrs Hudson began, “I believe he said he was going to the shop, that _was_ a few hours ago, but I guess he’ll be back any minute-”

Before Mrs Hudson could finish her sentence, the door of the flat was pushed even further open as John walked through carrying a few shopping bags. It seemed as though he was struggling with the amount of food he was carrying until Lestrade helped him. John took the key out from between his lips as he dropped a few shopping bags on the table beside one of Sherlock’s experiment.

 _Oh, yes, I forgot about that experiment._ Sherlock thought as he watched Lestrade and John struggle with the groceries.

“I knocked,” John said as he dumped another bag on the counter, “nobody came to the door so I assumed you were all up here.” John quickly glanced at Sherlock who looked half confused. “And you’ve finally woken up,” he stated.

* * *

 

After much chatting from Mrs Hudson, and absolutely no explanation as to why Lestrade was there, the two left the flat, and John was standing in the kitchen with Sherlock looking onward, suspicion in all he was. But eventually Sherlock let it all go and convinced himself that he was having strange dreams because he was lacking a case and his mind was substituting for this.

Finally, Sherlock spoke up and said, “I had a strange dream, John.”

John walked in through the arch of the kitchen and sat down in his usual armchair. Nothing about him told Sherlock anything other than the fact that John seems tired, busy and stressed. Which was almost completely normal.

“Oh?” John inquired as he rested in his chair.

Sherlock waved it off and shook his head, “It doesn’t really matter that much,” he said as he realized how silly he was being, “It just got me thinking…what’s your list?”

John was completely confused as he asked, “What list?”

“John, you are a walking cliché,” Sherlock said, utterly direct and without hesitation, “Don’t get me wrong, a good cliché, but a cliché nonetheless. I mean a bucket list. A list of things you won’t get to do in the future. A list of things you want to experience before you die."

Taking in a slight gulp, John asked, “Why are you saying this, Sherlock?”

“I told you, it was in a dream.” Sherlock sat back in his chair and frowned at himself as he said, “I had this funny little dream where you were poisoned while being held hostage, and the poison went on to kill you.”

Attempting to intervene in Sherlock’s voiced thoughts, John said, “Wait, Sherlock-”

Sherlock shook his head, “Oh I know. I know it was just a dream, but it did make me think.”

A little louder and more direct, John said, “Sherlock!”

Actually looking at John this time, as though taken by complete surprise, Sherlock replied with a simple, “Yes?”

There was a heaviness in John’s voice as he swallowed and said, “I am dying.” The words were so blunt yet they cut through Sherlock to sharply, like a knife slicing through everything he was. What stunned Sherlock even more however was John’s following words, “The case we were on… the man with a leg and a half… he did poison me. I was going to tell you tomorrow at the park.”

_Tomorrow at the park._

A whirlwind of emotions rushed over Sherlock as he wondered whether what he was currently hearing was once again a dream. Or a dream inside of another dream. How could he have dreamed of something yet to happen? And how did that embed itself inside of another dream? Perhaps the great Sherlock Holmes was greater than he believed. Or perhaps it was true that he was once again dreaming.

Interrupting Sherlock’s thoughts, John quietly said, “Three and a half years. I just got you back.”

Sherlock ignored everything his brain was telling him about trying to wake up from what was obviously another dream. He thought back to what had happened the first time. How the two sacrificed John’s last months for solving more cases, and how little time he had grieved afterward. It was a sensation which was all too real for Sherlock.

Sherlock shook his head once more and waved off his thoughts as he said, “Well we’re going to do it right this time.” John looked over to him as he continued, “no cases. Your last few weeks; we’re going to do whatever you want. Travel wherever you want and see whatever you want.”

It took John a moment to grasp what Sherlock had said as he replied with a simple, “What, really?” John was completely taken aback by what Sherlock had said that for a moment he knew he was off-guard.

“Of course, John.” Sherlock replied. He would not make the same mistakes as he had made in his dreams. Even if this were one itself, he knew that when he woke up, he would feel much better about it if he did the right thing by his friend.

John half smiled, “It would be an honour to spend my last few weeks with you.” He said as he glanced over at Sherlock. Something strangely amusing about the whole situation caused both boys to let out a small puff of laughter each. John, however, looked down once again and ran over what he was going to tell Harry the next day. It seemed almost too easy telling his friend that he was dying, though it gave John a slight comfort which he could not understand.

Sherlock shook his head. He knew he was dreaming again. He half wanted to praise his mind for creating work for him. Sherlock’s heart always sat with his work though he was beginning to question that as he wondered how he would actually react if John did die. _Such a fragile state of mind and such a fragile hearted man,_ Sherlock thought to himself as he glanced once more at the figure who was Dr John Watson.

 

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Thank-you so much for reading. I thought I would make a contribution to the Sherlock Fandom's written works. The inspiration for this came from the poem at the top entitled, Dream Within a Dream by Edgar Allan Poe. There isn't really music which goes with this but my playlist while writing was:  
> \- Jealousy – Sparcadia  
> \- Don’t Lose Hope – Red Jumpsuit Apparatus  
> \- Are You Gonna Be My Girl? – Jet  
> \- Ramones - Blitzkrieg Bop  
> Thanks again! And please remember to follow my tumblr for more, including graphics and gifs.


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